Phantom Limb
by bamftastik
Summary: TRESPASSER SPOILERS - Misamahl'len Lavellan attempts to adapt his spirit blade into a replacement limb. He broods on his amputation and his separation from Dorian as he makes plans for the future.


He rolled onto his back, staring up at the darkened ceiling of the bedroom. He could do this. He _would_ do this. Misamahl'len pinched shut his eyes. Breathing deep, he flexed his arm, felt the muscles respond. Such a simple thing. He could feel the fist, his fingers clenching, but if he were to open his eyes, he knew there would be nothing there. He had to accept that. Phantom pain, they called it, an echo of what had been.

Once, he would have turned from it. But tonight he embraced the sensation, lingering on it, doing his best to remember every bone and sinew. He had lost the hand; even Solas had been unable to turn back the damage the mark had done. By the time Misamahl'len had returned to the palace, there had been no other choice.

He remembered their faces, delirious as he had been. Josephine unable to hide her horror. Cullen steeling himself for the inevitable. Dorian had been there, of course, had refused to leave his side, but Misamahl'len would never have asked that of him. Sera, too, had been unnerved, unable to meet his eyes. In the moment, one mad thought had bubbled above the rest – that, of all of them, there was only one who wouldn't have hesitated, who would have understood, who had always had his back – but the Iron Bull was gone. Even that had been a lie.

In the end, it had been Divine Victoria herself that had done the deed. With Dorian's help she had taken him into her quarters, had commanded him to hold him down while she did what needed to be done. Her blade had been sharp and sure. He'd known it would be.

The memory didn't sting quite so much as it had. The tingling in his arm was different now, familiar. He had learned to summon the Knight-Enchanter's blade, to give the magic physical form, to shape it with his mind. If he could achieve this shape, why not others? Still, he kept his hand fixed in his mind, tracing it over and over, the magic stretching past his stump, thrumming with remembered strength.

Slowly, he dared to open his eyes. The light glistened, shifting as he struggled to hold its shape. Misamahl'len flexed his fingers, watching as the magic responded, golden sinew knitting itself together over a whisper of golden bone.

He sat up carefully, moving to the desk with his arm held gingerly before him. A half-finished letter waited there and he winced at the childlike scrawl. Learning to write with his remaining hand had been more difficult than he'd imagined. He could reach Dorian through the crystal that waited beside the inkwell, he knew. Perhaps he should. They had discussed the possibility of adapting his spirit blade at length and Misamahl'len had promised to keep him updated on his progress.

But what he had to say... a letter would be best. There would be no arguments, no pained inflection to threaten his resolve. It wasn't pride that kept him from sending it, not shame at his atrocious handwriting. Those excuses already rang hollow. No, they wouldn't know his plans until he was already gone. Perhaps in time, they would understand.

He picked up the quill with his remaining hand, transferring it carefully to other. The details of it were still forming, but his fingers moved with a clarity of thought, their golden threads twining round the quill. Smiling to himself, he dipped it into the ink and pressed it to the page.

The explosion was instantaneous. Wood shattered in his hand, the pages scattering to the floor. His carefully-crafted hand winked out of existence, but he still reached out with it instinctively, his stump knocking the inkwell to the floor. Misamahl'len cursed. They had expected this would be a problem. The spirit blade's impact on the world was destructive. If the same magic could be used to form a replacement limb, he would need to take the utmost care not to destroy everything he touched.

A bitter laugh escaped him. It was certainly too late for that. And so he would go. The Inquisition had disbanded. Dorian was gone. His clan was gone. His hand, his friends, all that he had known... gone. But what if there was a chance to get something back? They hunted for Solas – for Fen'Harel – but the others didn't understand. When the time came, Misamahl'len would go to him alone.

A faint shimmering drew his attention. Dorian's crystal. He was attempting to reach him. At first, Misamhl'len had kept the crystal nestled against his chest, stroking it as they talked long into the night. But Dorian had his work in the Magisterium; Misamahl'len was overseeing the dismantling of Skyhold. There never seemed to be time. And yet, he knew that if it answered the summons, Dorian would make all the time he needed.

He stared at it a moment longer. Then he rose slowly from the desk and returned to the bed. The crystal cast shifting shadows on the wall and he turned his back on it, pillowing his head on what remained of his arm.


End file.
